


Sacrificial Flame

by vasaris



Category: Medea - Euripides, The Sentinel
Genre: Abuse of empathic abilities, Dubious Consent, F/M, GFY, Not Beta Read, Rough Trade July 2015, canonical character deaths, lack of some canonical character deaths, nonlinear storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6438844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vasaris/pseuds/vasaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hero-worship and desperation are enough to seduce any sheltered princess – especially when wielded by a man like Iason. Medea wonders – she has to wonder, how can she not? – if Iason truly understands what he has done.  Hero-worship and desperation were once enough to turn a young woman against her brother, her father, her country.</p><p>Enough to turn her into a traitor.</p><p>Enough to turn her into unrepentant manipulator and murderer.</p><p>Does he think the result will be any different a second time around?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrificial Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the lovely and generous Marlislash Gabs
> 
> In regards to the dubious consent, please see the end notes.

“Your majesty – please, your daughter is of age, and the offer from the king of Mycenae is generous.”

Medea keeps her expression neutral as Creon’s advisors and court continue to badger him about Glauce and her marital prospects.  Every day, more hopefuls arrive from around Greece, younger sons and budding heroes hoping to gain a connection to the crown of Corinth and – almost incidentally – the hand of the King’s lovely daughter.  The scene is almost laughably familiar in its similarity to the arguments of her father’s council. 

“Enough!”  Creon’s shout stills the room.  “My daughter is precious to me and I will have her wed where it will make her happiest – and be the greatest boon to our city.”

“Your majesty, has your daughter indicated any kind of a preference?” asks her husband.  She meets his eyes, where he stands near the king, and barely manages to restrain a sneer as he glances away.  Instead his eyes drift upward, to where the princess lingers upon the upper balcony, a charming blush staining her cheeks.

It is no surprise to see it, many young women sigh after him – Iason the prince, Iason the Hero, Iason favored of Hera.  They do not know him for what he is, Iason the manipulator, Iason the gifted of Aphrodite.  They feel his pull, the draw that he exerts to gain the favor of all who see him, but Medea – ah, Medea knows him well.

“My lord prince,” says Creon.  “It is unusual to so lenient with a daughter, but she is very dear to me.  I would have her happiness and the welfare of all served.”

“I have seen the havoc that can be wrought if the will of a princess is not taken into account.”  Iason does not glance her way, but the eyes of Creon’s council turn to Medea in cool appraisal.  “There are many suitors here, surely one has caught her eye – or at least your approval.”

Creon nods slowly.

“I have spoken to my daughter of her options, and she _has_ expressed certain preferences. There are some… small difficulties that will need to be smoothed over, if she is to have my choice for her.”

Creon’s gaze slides over her and Medea can feel her lips curve downward at the subtle dismissal.  He has never given her respect, despite many services she has offered his household and court over the years.

His heart ka-thumps in a steady beat and it is clear that he speaks truth.  Yet his voice is slick in a way Medea cannot like.  There are not many things that would stand between a king and the man he wishes his child to marry.

“They can be worked out, surely,” says Iason with a small smile, his voice rich with Aphrodite’s gift.  “Your daughter’s choice is doubtless a worthy one, for Corinth and for your House.”

Medea can feel the strength of it fountain out into the room, Creon and many of his court beginning to smile and nod in amiable agreement.  Only Hippotes, Creon’s son, seems to remain unmoved.

~*~

When Medea was a child, she and her brother were sent away from her father’s court to live with their aunt, Circe.  Medea found herself entranced by the soft sand of the beach where their father’s ships would land, enthralled by the music of windblown leaves in the dense forests of the island, and fascinated by the differences in the scents in Circe’s massive gardens.

“I don’t understand what you find so interesting about sand,” her brother said one day.

“The grains are all different,” Medea told him, showing him her sand-covered hand.  “Some are shiny, like that rock Aunt Circe showed us, that comes from Hephaestus’ forge. There are pretty shells, and crystals, and teeny-tiny boulders.”

“It all looks the same to me,” said Apsyrtus, picking up a handful and sifting it slowly through his fingers.

“Well, most of your pointy sticks look the same to me.”

“You take that back!” Apsyrtus cried, outraged.  “They’re not the same at _all_.”

Medea grinned, leaping to her feet and running back toward Circe’s house.

“Make me, big brother!”

Apsyrtus laughed and gave chase.

 

They spent several years with Circe and a small group of tutors, learning magic and swordplay, politics and power.  Medea’s gift for magic and her brother’s gift for words and weapons grew wildly in Circe’s care.  In the safe haven of Circe’s island, Medea’s other gifts blossomed slowly under the warm and watchful eye of her grandfather, Helios, lord of the sun.  Her senses told her everything there was to know about the isle and sometimes overwhelmed her with information.

“Aunt Circe,” said Medea on her brother’s sixteenth name-day.  “Strangers are coming.”

“Oh?” said her aunt, looking up from the poultice she was mixing.  “I did not think you were working on your scrying today.”

Medea shook her head.  “I can smell them on the ocean wind.  Tar and timber and people I do not know.”

Circe contemplated her with cool, green eyes.

“Your father is supposed to be here today,” said Circe.  “To take your brother home.”

“We’re going home?”

It was an odd thought.  Medea could barely remember her father’s face, and she had never known her mother’s.

“Your brother is.”

“Not me?”

Circe shook her head slowly.  Medea felt her face crumple, pain lancing through her.

 “Child, do not despair,” said Circe. “You will see your home again.”

“But why does Apsyrtus get to go home?  It’s not fair.”

Circe pulled her into a warm embrace.

“Because I asked your father to leave you with me for some little time longer,” Circe’s hand stroked Medea’s hair gently.  “Your brother is a promising warrior, and must train under those who are better versed in the art.  You, however… you have the gifts of the god-born, and they must be trained lest they drive you mad.  I have protected you from them as best as I have been able, but you must learn control on your own.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are safe enough here, in field and forest, sea and strand – there are few voices for you to hear, and all of them are familiar.  You know the feel of the earth and the scent of the winds.”

Medea shuddered, thinking of the unfamiliar stench of the boat on the distant horizon.  Apsyrtus had told her of life in the palace, with all of the people there, and of their kingdom, Colchis, which was filled to the sky with people and animals and things beyond imagining.

“Can’t I just stay here?”

“Ah, no,” laughed Circe.  “I do not think you would like to live with only myself for company.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, my sweet little witch,” her aunt’s smile was both warm and strangely cruel.  “What seems like solace now will not remain so as you come of age.  It will be hard, I know.  To be burdened with the perception of the great gods, who see and feel all, is as terrible a thing as it is a wondrous one.  Lesser beings are not meant for such understanding.”

Medea grasped her aunt’s hand and brought it to her heart, tears welling in her eyes.

“It’s not fair.  I don’t _want_ the gifts of the god-born.  Can’t you just take them away?”

Circe shook her head.

“Your perception is as much a part of you as your limbs.”  Circe brought their joined hands up to her lips and gently kissed Medea’s fingers.  “I would no more maim you that way than I would take your arms.”

“That’s not a no,” said Medea.  “You do know how.”

“There are ways and ways, Medea,” said Circe. “And you will learn them all.  If you choose to butcher yourself when you return to your father’s court, there is nothing I can do to stop you.  But while you are here, little witch, you will cherish every part of yourself.”

“Yes, Aunt.”  Medea cuddled against Circe’s shoulder.  “So how will we begin?”

“Well,” said Circe thoughtfully.  “Tonight we will celebrate your brother’s naming-day and tomorrow we will see him and your father off to their ship.”

Medea pulled away in order to stare into Circe’s depthless, immortal eyes.

“Then we will begin at the beginning.  You will learn to spin, little witch.  You will learn to weave.  You will learn to sew many things together, little witch, and how to unravel many more.  When your father comes for you, you will be ready for all that the fates demand of you.”

“Aunt Circe?”

“Come along, there are rooms to prepare, and a feast to serve.”

~*~

Iason catches up with her as she leaves the audience chamber, all but unnoticed by the men and women of Creon’s court who only see her when they want the use of her skills.

“Husband,” she says coolly, raising her eyes to his.  “What service might I perform for you?”

“Medea – we need to speak.”

“Do we?” Her brows rise high in exaggerated surprise.  “How strange.  You have not seen me fit for conversation in months.”

“It is not merely conversation I seek.”

She tilts her head and listens carefully.  There are none near enough by to be of concern, but Medea says nothing as Iason pulls her along to an empty room.  The palace guards are nearer by and far more likely to overhear conversation.

“What is it you want, _husband?_ ”

“Medea, please, don’t be like that,” he says softly, yet pitched to carry.  “You know that we were never legally wed.”

She stares at him.

“Strange, I remember standing before my aunt and your crew as you pledged yourself to me.” He flinches as her voice lowers to a whisper.  “I fought for you, against my father who had gone mad, and against the brother that I loved as much as my own life.  I swore my life and skills, my love and service to you and to the family that we would build here in your barbaric group of nations.”

“So what?” asks Iason, voice echoing through the room.  “I didn’t ask you to slay your brother or your father.  I only wanted to gain what was mine by right!”

Medea doesn’t bother to respond to the blatant slander.  “You asked me to help you, so that you could reclaim your throne.”

He scoffs and she can hear the sound of feet approaching.  It sounds like Etor, Creon’s chief advisor, one of the few who did not seem wholly convinced by Creon’s words and Iason’s posturing.

“With your help I was exiled from Thessaly – and forced to live on the sufferance of others,” the steps outside in the hall stop just shy of the entryway.  “We never married, in custom or law.  I have allowed you to call me husband, and borne your presence in my house for the love of my sons, but know this, Medea of Colchis, you are nothing to me beyond a willing concubine.”

“So _you_ are the one the king wishes for his daughter.” The words drop from Medea’s lips like Hephaestus’ stones, shattering and leaving glittering shards between them.  “The one she cannot openly seek the courtship of – unless, of course, you renounce me and our children.”

Iason has planned well – she can smell Etor’s nervous fear and hear the tripping hammer of his heart.  There is no doubt that the man has heard Iason deny their marriage – loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the hall.  It will not take long for word to spread that Iason has never been wed and that Medea has never been a wife.  She says nothing as Etor scurries back from whence he came and stills her mind long enough to create a brittle calm.

“You honestly expect me to accept this, don’t you?”

“It’s for the best, don’t you see?  With Glauce, I’ll have royal connections once again – we’ll be able to live as we always should have done.”

“We?”

“I would not abandon you,” his smile lies to her as his heart tells her otherwise.  “Glauce is content to let you keep the house and the children.  Your lives will not change at all.”

“Of course.”  Medea feels her lips curve up in a brittle smile.  “After all, why would the lovely princess object to the source of your wealth?  Where _would_ you be without me and my magical hands?”

Iason frowns at her, nonplusse

“I see.”  Flame wells up from somewhere deep inside, bringing with it a luminescent clarity as something between them _snaps_.  His gift envelops her, trying to thrust its way inside. Iason rocks back on his heels, Medea forces it away with a long-hidden rage that flares up and begins to _burn_. She waves a careless hand and smiles as his eyes narrow to glittering slits.  “Oh, please continue.  Your plans are fascinating, especially as they always rely on my aid.”

“What aid? _You_ have never helped me, but to fulfill the will of the Gods,” snaps Iason, the pressure of his Gift flaring with his anger.  “I owe you _nothing_ and the Gods everything. I was _gifted_ with your love and compliance, and have long wished that I hadn’t been.  If not for you I would be a _king,_ not an exile begging for crumbs at Creon’s feet.”

“If not for me, you would be _dead,_ Iason.”

Medea turns and walks out of the room, her gait steady and dignified as she exits the palace and heads toward the home where she had believed them both to be happy, until these last, silent months.

“Mother.”  Thessalus greets her in the courtyard, his eyes dark and angry.  “Mermeros and Pheres are upstairs with Eriopis.”

Like her, each of her children carries the perception of the god-born, although Eriopis is further burdened with Aphrodite’s Gift.

“You have been listening?”

Thessalus raises a brow and for a moment looks so like her brother Apsyrtus that it takes her breath away. A laugh bubbles up, despite her anger, and Medea shakes her head. “Of course you were.”

“Of course I was,” he agreed, unrepentant.  “Unfortunately, _Eriopis_ was wondering when you and Father would be home –”

“Oh.” She buries her face in her hands.  “Oh, dear.  How much did she hear?”

“Enough to know that father is disavowing his marriage to you.”  They stop at the fountain in the center courtyard, which flowed with cool, clear water. “Does he think that we would not know?”

Medea hesitates.  For all that she knows that at least two of her children have heard their father disavow her – and by extension, _them_ – she does not want to speak ill of him.  Iason is their father.  He should be their protector.  It angers her that she cannot protect them from the pain of Iason’s betrayal.

“I do not think that your father is thinking of any of us at all,” she says at last.  “He sees only the prize to be had.”

“Glauce.”

Medea brushes a lock of thick, dark hair from Thessalus’ eyes.  Her eldest son is still quite young by the standards of these Greeks, but in Colchis he would be old enough to pursue a King’s daughter and would have the standing to do so.  He has never hidden his adoration for Glauce, and has competed in the impromptu games that the girl’s suitors have improvised to impress the King.

Yet – Creon’s eyes have always slid over him as though he was not there, even when he has won.  Like all of her children, he has her marble-white skin, skin that marks them as foreign and _unworthy_.   The only consolation has been that Creon rarely acknowledges any of the men – young or old – who vie for his notice.

“Glauce,” she agrees.  “Andall she represents.”

Thessalus sits on the fountain’s ledge and runs his fingers through the water.

“Is what he says true?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it true that you never legally wed?”

“That depends on whether or not you count marriage in Colchis,” says Medea.  “Which your father apparently does not, although neither he, nor his esteemed friends, have ever said aught of it.”

“The Argonauts,” says Thessalus, bile dripping unexpectedly from each word.  He remembers living on the ship, and while the _Argo_ itself had been kind, there had ever been distrust and disdain from Iason’s crew.  “Why would they?”

Medea turns her face toward the sun.  “Why would they, indeed?”

~*~

Circe had not been joking when she declared that Medea’s training would start at the beginning.  The day after her brother left the island was the day that Circe led her to a gleaming flock of golden, wingèd sheep that fed in lush pastures beyond Circe’s forest.

“But I thought father was supposed to be the caretaker for the Golden Fleece,” said Medea.

“Oh, he is.”  Circe looked over the flock with fathomless eyes.  “You have to remember that the great gods bed who they will and without much regard to the women they despoil.  Great Poseidon kidnapped my niece Theophane and turned her into an ewe, hiding her amidst the sheep of the fold that he might have her whenever he wished.  Upon her he fathered many a lamb, each of whom had wool of sunlight and wings of purest gold.  The eldest of these was Aries, who rescued the children of Nephele Rain-Bringer, and for his kindness was butchered in the name of his father, creating the great treasure of your father’s house.

“When your father told me of it, I brought Theophane and her children here, lesser gods all, that they might be safe from further such use,” Circe’s mouth twisted.  “Great Poseidon has chosen to respect my territory.  At least for now.  I suspect that he has found some other human girl or nymph or nereid to distract him.”

Circe’s knuckles showed white as the sorceress stared down over the flock.

“I should keep you here,” said Circe suddenly.  “There is little happiness to be found for the god-born, for the minor goddesses and demi-deities.  There is little my father can do to protect you, for all that he watches us all as he drives the sun across the sky.  But I cannot – the thread of your fate will take you far from here.”

Circe held out a hand and Medea took it, allowing herself to be pulled into Circe’s cool embrace.

“So instead, you will learn to care for the flock and gather their wool,” said Circe.  “There are few predators here, but there are enough that you should keep watch.  Theophane will guide you.  Stay alert, Medea.”

So it was that Medea spent two years under the tutelage of Theophane and her children, learning to listen to everything around her, all at once.  She learned to control her sight and refined her sense of smell to the point that she could easily identify everything the wind carried to her in a single breath.

Sunlight and magic danced upon her skin. Medea taught herself the limits of the power that lived within her flesh and the extent to which she could manipulate what pooled without. Medea gathered the shining wool of Theophane and her children, and taught herself to spin thread as fine as spider silk, yet with the strength of Titans.  Theophane told her how to create a bow and Medea taught herself to hunt.  The flock showed her edible plants, and Medea learned to live simply from the land.  She listened to the trees and rocks, to the animals of forest and field, and learned their great and slow wisdom.

“You are interesting,” came a sweet, wild voice one day as Medea haunted the woods looking for her dinner.

Ahead of her stood a girl, not much older than her, dressed in all of the shades of the forest.  In one hand she carried a bow unlike anything Medea had ever seen or heard of, with sinuous curves augmented by odd little wheels and levers, and across her back lay a quiver filled with softly shining arrows.

“Oh?”  Medea held herself still.  “How so?”

“My… cousins speak of you,and I became curious.  They are right.  You _are_ very interesting.” The girl grinned, shouldering her bow.  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear me coming.”

“I’m not,” said Medea, staring into eyes that held the maelstrom of Spring.  “Are many that can hear you approach, Great Artemis?”

“No. Not even among the Olympians.”  The girl laughed.  “Helios told me you would recognize me on sight.  I didn’t believe him.”

“You’re not subtle.”

“You might be surprised.”  Mischief lit those impossible, abyssal eyes.  “Have dinner with me tonight.  I know of… others who would like to meet you.”

“That’s not an invitation to become a member of your entourage, is it?”

“No,” Artemis hunched a little.  “I’d like to, but Apollo said that if I started kidnapping girls and altering fates, he’d string me up from the peak of the sky by my ankles.”

Medea blinked.

“Big brothers, they’re kind of jerks.”

“I thought you were twins. How does that work?”

“Well, he decided to grow up,” said Artemis, gesturing vaguely at her barely budding breasts. “I decided I didn’t want to, at least not always, so that gives him some kind of authority.  Apparently.”

Medea decided it was probably best not to ask.

“So, dinner?”

“Of course.” One didn't say no to gods, after all.  I should tell Theophane –”

“Don’t worry.  I’ve told her and spoken to Circe.  Hera and Aphrodite might call her a _lesser_ goddess, but Circe is vicious when crossed and this is her domain.”  Artemis shook her head. “They made me promise not to force you, but I think you’ll have some fun.”

“I… All right.”

“Brave girl.  You'll need that, and more than most.”  For a moment, the goddess’ eyes filled with the crimson spatter of blood against autumn leaves.  It lasted for a second that stretched to infinity before the soft, fluttering glow of spring leaves in eternal sunlight filled her gaze.  “Ah, but that I could claim you for mine.  You would be happier.”

“I – what?”

“Come.  There are those you should meet.”

Medea followed her to a clearing she'd never seen.  A fire glowed at the center, bright as the sun and oddly gentle on her skin. Circe sat upon a log, a generous cup of golden wine in one hand.  Beside her stood a tall woman with hair blacker than night and eyes like stars.  A dark-eyed woman with hair like moonlight curled Circe’s feet, her head resting against Circe's knee. 

“You’ll have to forgive Selene.  It's a little early for her,” said Circe, stroking her free hand through the moon-goddess’ hair.

Artemis gave a little sniff and Selene smiled.

“Hello, little witch,” said the dark goddess.  “Helios has had much to say of your adventures, and I thought it time that we meet.”

“Hecate,” sighed Medea. “Grandmother.”

The Goddess of Magic and the New Moon smiled and opened her arms.

~*~

When Iason returns home, it is with sound and fury, projecting rage the way he normally exuded trust and friendship.

“Hippotes objects.” The roar of his voice echoes like the dragon he once confronted with Medea’s aid.  “ _Hippotes objects_ and Creon questioned if perhaps it would make better sense for Glauce to marry one of the youthful rabble.”

Medea raises a brow, not losing her concentration as she spins shimmering sea-silk into spider-fine yarn.  Behind her, Eriopis weaves with astonishing speed, hands and yarn flying upon the loom.  The fabric forming beneath her hands is so sheer it is almost intangible.  Properly enchanted it would make a fine cloak of invisibility, but Eriopis has some other intent and Medea has promised not to view the final product until it is done.

"Youthful rabble?” Cold and unkind laughter bubbles in her throat. “Like Thessalus?”

“He is too young to wed,” Iason dismisses.

“He is older than Glauce and you deem _her_ old enough.”  Eriopis’ voice is cool as her hands still, leaving only the sound of Medea’s spindle as it hums with magic and skill.

“You vicious whore,” Iason breathes. “You've told them.”

“I had no need to tell our children what they can hear on their own.”

Iason scoffs.

“You don't think I can hear you, father?” Eriopis’ voice is soft.

“I know you want to be special, little one,” the press of Aphrodite’s gift fills the room, calculating and unsubtle.

“I _am_ special,” her daughter says, brow furrowing as her own gift slides around the oppressive wall of his.

Iason laughs.  “Oh, Eriopis, you are, and it will help you and Glauce when you enter her service.”

Medea allows the spindle to fall.  “What did you say?”

“That Eriopis will enter into Glauce’s service when we marry.  It's an honorable position for…”

“…a girl without a father?” Eriopis’ footfalls are as silent as those of the woodland goddess.  Medea’s beautiful, fair-skinned child appears at her elbow.  “After all, didn't Creon say ‘what man would want a whore’s get’?”

 

Medea’s eyes narrow as she stares at Iason.  She should not have allowed her anger to deafen her.

“Eriopis, child – the King would never say such a thing of you.  Indeed, it will be of great use for you to be there and known to the court –”

“So that she can be used as a pawn?” Medea hisses, vitriol dripping from her tongue.  “Never.  Eriopis would never be safe.”

“We would have chosen her husband regardless, Medea.”

“Yet you would let Glauce take my place?  I think not.”

“You have no choice.”  He stares at her for a moment and beckons her.  “Come, I need to speak with you away from prying ears.”

Reluctantly, she follows him.

“You should not encourage such ridiculous fantasies,” he tells her as they head downstairs to the storage rooms.  “They are of foreign blood, and cannot _have_ such gifts as you claim.”

“Of course they can,” the words slip from her mouth, unbidden.  “ _I_ have such gifts and am not from your beloved Greece.”

“Magic tricks,” says Iason, pulling her into one of the largest rooms and lighting a lamp, revealing the remaining treasure from his quest for the Fleece.  “Trifles that should not be glorified by saying they come from the _gods._    It’s bad enough that you claim such a thing, but that you’ve used your magic to fool our children is nothing short of blasphemous.”

Medea stares at him, appalled by the accusation as his gift knocks sharply against her mind, weighted heavily with the demand for _belief._   She pushes it aside, allowing it to slide past her as Iason’s eyes narrow in cold calculation. 

“I need a gift, something to remind Hippotes of my wealth, my power and connections.”

“So find one.  You have treasure enough here.”

“Ah, but there is something I have in mind.  A dress you once wore, spun of golden wool.”

It’s enough to distract her from Iason’s denial of skills he has seen her use.

“I did.  I wore the royal jewels of my house as well.  What of it?”

“You will give them and the golden dress to me.”  He points at the small, cedar press that sits locked upon a high shelf.

“No.”  She stares at him.  “Are you mad? You think I will give you the things _I_ have saved for our children so you can buy your way into a young man’s favor?”

Iason grabs her by the throat and shoves her roughly into a wall. “I don't think you understand.  You _are_ going to do this.  I _will_ have Glauce and a place in the royal family.  You will _not_ deny me my destiny!”

The cedar chest bursts into white-hot flame, causing him to flinch.  Medea says nothing, simply staring into his eyes as she conjures a tongue of sun-bright fire to hover near his face.  For a moment, fear lights his eyes before the rage returns, more fiercely.

“You would _dare_ use your magic against me?”  He shoves her back again before stepping away.  “By what right, woman!  How dare you even think to threaten me?”

“I would destroy everything you think to own, Iason.” Medea locks her eyes on his, ignoring the pain in her throat.  “And I dare because by your very own words, _you do not own me._   If am not your wife, I am your whore, and not even that since you’ve never paid me for a single service I’ve done for you.  What I have is _mine_ and nothing of yours to give away.”

His demeanor changes, suddenly pleading.  “Why do you fight me on this, Medea?  Have I not cared for you? Provided for you?  Did I not give you a place when anyone else would have cast you from them for your sins?”

“My _sins_?  _My_ sins _?_   Which sins are those?”

“You’re a fratricide and a traitor to your people!” The air of entreaty shatters.  “You should be grateful that I was willing to keep you in my life and in my bed, instead of tossing you aside the moment we escaped your father’s wrath!”

“I should be grateful for the coercion of your gift?  _Grateful_?  My sins are nothing in comparison to yours, Iason.  Little wonder Circe had so little trouble with the expiation of _my_ sins.”

The chest in the corner falls to ash and Iason roars.  In his voice is the strength of the dragon he defeated.  It curls around him in a dark, blistering shadow, hissing hungrily as it stares at her before snuffing the lamp with a careless breath.  Out of instinct, Medea throws up a hand, and the cries of a thousand golden bells echo throughout the chamber as a great bird of golden fire manifests before her, filling the room with light.

“You will _submit.”_ The power of his voice bears down upon her as the dragon strikes, growing impossibly large as it attempts to coil around the fiery creature protecting her.  The firebird screams, claws and beak ripping and tearing as the dragon bears it down.  Ethereal blood splashes the walls in black and flame, and Medea feels something within herself _crack_ as the great jaws of the dragon snap shut over the bird’s throat, silencing its golden cries.  The great, golden bird flares brightly and falls to ash, leaving her alone in the gloaming dark with Iason.

“Is that the best you can do, _witch?”_ Iason’s smile is cold while the dragon’s smile is gleeful.  “Perhaps now you will _listen_ and _believe_ what I say to you.”

His gift dives deep, seeking the core of her mind before he speaks, seeking purchase in the damaged part of her psyche.  “You know I care for you – but Creon wishes to bring me into his family.  You should approve.  It is advantageous to both of us – you love me and want me to succeed.” He strides over and fists his hand in her hair.  “You will do it, lest someone decide there are easier ways to free me from you.”

“Do not threaten my mother, Iason of Iolcus,” Thessalus is suddenly in the doorway, a blade in hand and his brothers at his back. “We will protect her and our sister, even from you.”

“Do you think you can best me with a sword, boy?”

“No,” Thessalus’ grip shifts, not taking his eyes from his father.  “But I don't need to.  I only need to give Mother enough time to work her magic.”

“I do not fear her magic,” Iason snarls at Thessalus.  “I have broken it, and her.”

Mad, wicked laughter boils from Medea’s throat and she cannot stop it.

“Get out,” says Thessalus as Mermeros and Pheres begin speaking in low tones.  “Mother is not the only one with magic in this house.”

~*~

The years pass in a strangely cobbled string of lessons, adventures, celebrations and stories.  Medea, when she could be bothered to think on it, was grateful for the unorthodox schooling she received from Circe and her divine mentors.

It was not every sorceress that received some of her tuition directly from the goddess of Magic, regardless of the fact that Hecate might be one of her grandmothers, nor was every girl privileged to go camping in the woods with Artemis in order to learn the best methods to use her senses.  Selene came less frequently – her nightly duties made it harder for her to visit – but the serenity that the lovely moon goddess taught was still something Medea would come to treasure.

“So, it’s your name-day.  Your seventeenth.”  Even after years of tuition, Medea hadn’t heard Artemis approach.

Medea turned and smiled at the goddess.  Today Artemis had chosen the form of a young woman much the same age as herself, instead of a child barely budding into puberty, with eyes like autumn leaves fallen upon rich loam.

“It is,” said Medea.  “Aunt Circe keeps implying that there shall be a grand event but she is being mysterious about it.”

“Has she?” Artemis grinned.  “Good.  I’d hate to have to smite her for disobeying a direct request.”

“Order you mean?”

“Possibly.  It was just a small order.  Tiny.”

“Invisibly small?”

“There’s no such thing as invisibly small.”

“Not for you, maybe.”

“Eh.” Artemis shrugged.  “You’re just not trying hard enough.”

“Does anyone ever tell you that you’re ridiculous?”

“It’s a good thing I like you,” Artemis frowned at her mock-sternly.  “If I was Apollo or Athene you would be in for a dreadful smiting or cursing.  They hate it when someone points out that they can be _incredibly_ silly.  And if a mortal does it, well… it’s been nice knowing you.  I hope you enjoy your life as a sea cucumber.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Best you do.  Most of my family has _no_ sense of humor at _all.”_

“So what is it that you have planned?”

Artemis sidled up to her and placed a gentle hand at the nape of her neck, pulling her in close enough to scent that ineffable thing that screams _goddess_ to Medea’s senses, and kissed her.  The goddess’ lips were soft and ripe, with a lush sweetness that begged to be savored.  Medea settled into Artemis’ embrace, parting her lips and enjoying the languorous play of mouth and tongue.

“Oh,” she said softly, as Artemis pulled away.  “But I thought –”

“Don’t think,” Artemis told her, cupping her chin.  “I cannot claim you as one of mine, though you would be happy with me and my handmaidens.  But I can give you this – the ultimate lesson of touch.  If you come with me today, I will teach you the limits of your pleasure and the boundaries of your pain.”

“Goddess,” Medea whispered, staring into the maelstrom of Artemis’ autumnal eyes, and seeing blood and earth and feral _want._

“Yes.” Artemis leaned forward, kissing her gently.  “Unlike my kin, I will not steal you.  I will not deny you your consent.  I won’t lie about who I am or what I want from you – and if you come with me I will take _everything_.”

In the last year, as her body settled, Medea has found its pleasure and fantasized about the feel of Artemis’ perfect body, the taste of her.  It had seemed a ridiculous and doomed infatuation, given Artemis’ well-known lack of desire to take a lover.  Yet here the goddess stood, asking to bed her, as though there was any way she could say no.

“Yes.  Please.” Medea leaned in, taking one kiss and then another, reveling as the scent of arousal rose between them.  “Teach me.”

 

The look Circe gave them when they return for Medea’s birthday feast was arch and amused.

“You cannot keep her,” she said to Artemis.

“I can still fuck her,” said Artemis with unexpected crudity.  “Until she leaves your care, she has the right to do as she wishes.”

“Mmmmm,” said Medea.  “I think I need more lessons.  I’m not sure I’ll ever be done with them.”

Hecate laughed and came forward to embrace Medea.

“I see that you’ve been having a good day.”

“Camping is going to be so much more fun.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts my dear,” said Hecate.  “The world of mortals is not as it is here.  The freedoms Circe allows you are not ones that you will be granted by your father – or your husband.”

“I don’t want a husband,” said Medea.

“You may not be given a choice.”  Hecate brushed a strand of hair away from Medea’s eyes.  “But tonight is not the night for that.  Tonight – before Artemis sweeps you off for further debauchery – is the night that I give you _this._ ”

 _This_ was a small, faceted egg of volcanic glass.  It rested neatly in the palm of her hand; warm, comforting and oddly intangible.

“What is it?”

“There are many who can work magic,” said Hecate.  “You know this – your father and your brother both are skilled magic-users, though your brother prefers to hit things with sharp objects.  But the greatest magicsrequire more.  They require a connection to the spiritual realm.”

Medea nodded.

“Circe was going to lead me through the ceremony tomorrow.”

“Surprise!” said Circe, green eyes gleaming.  “It’s so much easier just to ask.”

Hecate gave her daughter a small swat on the head.

“You are of my blood, granddaughter, so for you, as for Circe, it is simply a gift.”

The egg rocked in her palm and then split down the middle.  In its wake sat a small chick with plumes of golden fire.  It stared at her with eyes of red-gold flame as its beak opened in glorious song.  Golden bells seemed to chime in indescribably beautiful harmonies.

“That’s a firebird – one of the undying ones,” said Circe softly.

“Yes,” said Hecate, almost too soft to hear.  “She will need it.”

~*~

“Mother,” says Thessalus.  “We cannot stay here.”

She considers her son’s words as she listens to Iason’s retreating steps.  It is no surprise to her that they trace their way toward the palace.

“No, we can’t, but for the moment there is nowhere for us to go.”

Eriopis comes down the stairs on silent feet.

“Can we go to Aunt Circe?”

“It’s rather a long trip,” Medea says.  “Though your suggestion is not without merit.”

“We should go,” says Mermeros and Pheres nods.

“It will not be safe,” adds Thessalus.

“We cannot leave in the middle of the night.”

“Who cares?”  Alcimenes comes down the stairs, carrying young Tisander, and Medea sighs.

“Argo,” says the youngest boy, and Medea finds herself raising her brows.  The _Argo_ once had a place of honor in Corinth’s harbor, but has long since been moved to an old dry-dock that has not been used in years.  The ship is in a state of terrible disrepair, but its soul – the intelligence that was gifted to it – still remains.  Medea has spent years arguing that they should repair the ship, or at least bring the blessed wood of the ship’s prow to their home, and treat it with all the respect it was due.

In retrospect, Iason’s refusal should have been a warning.

“Perhaps,” she says quietly, hearing Iason speak to Creon’s guards.  A glance around the room tells her that most of the children are doing the same.  “Listen to me, all of you.”

They turn, almost as one.

“Do not listen for your father, except for his approach, and treat him with all due courtesy.”  Thessalus opens his mouth in clear objection and Medea raises her hand.  “No – son, children.  Please.  It will be hard enough to bear what your father is doing, without listening to his speech or actions.  I know you want to help, but in this allow me to bear the burden.”

She takes Tisander from Alcimenes’ hands.  “Tonight, take to your beds and rest.  It will take some time for us to make plans.  Your father may disavow us, but that does not mean we are without resources.”

Thessalus nods and Eriopis ushers them all toward their rooms.  Medea herself heads to the coolness of the courtyard, cradling the drowsing toddler and listening as Iason speaks to Creon.

 _“There should be no problems from Medea,”_ says Iason _.  “It was just as simple a task as I thought.”_

 _“Are you certain?”_ Creon sounds tired _.  “I do not wish to counter the wrath of an angry, god-born sorceress.”_

 _“A sorceress is crippled when you have destroyed her core,”_ says Iason _.  “Medea is a woman like any other:  weak and sentimental. I needed only to enrage her and let the captured spirit of her father’s dragon attack.  It was laughable how easy it was to pull her teeth.  Years and years of waiting upon that ridiculous barbarian ‘princess’. I’m almost angry I didn’t think of it before.  She thinks she still has the upper hand – ordered me from the house, in fact, but come morning, she will understand that my will is not to be disobeyed.”_

_Creon laughs._

_“So you intend on keeping her?”_

_“Of course.  Her ability to create the potions the elite have come to crave remains unhindered, and she is, without question, the most talented mistress of the spindle and loom in Corinth.  She was right when she said she’s the source of my greatest wealth, and I see no reason to give that up.  She’ll just… have to get used to producing what is demanded of her, rather than what she wishes.  Eriopis is almost as good – the girl will make a fine addition to our household when Glauce and I wed.”_

_“Indeed she will.”_

Medea bites her lips at the sudden, pregnant silence, heart hammering.  How many conversations like this has she missed because she chose to trust her husband?  She is capable of listening to every conversation in the city at once – a skill she does not employ beyond listening for problems that she might be able to solve with a coin or salve or a potion.  How could she have _missed_ this?

 _“My daughter is spending some time in the private gardens this evening,”_ says Creon _.  “I know you to be an honorable man, Iason – and I would not see my daughter wed to a man that she has only ever seen from across the room.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“My son may have certain reservations, but I do not.  If you wish to spend some time with Glauce – just to be certain that you are, indeed, the one she is so sighing after, I would not object.  And if… anything were to happen that would overcome my son’s reluctance to see you wed, well…”_

_“I see.”_

Iason’s voice is filled with a glee that makes Medea feel vaguely ill.  She wonders how hard he is pushing Creon, that the King would tell him where to find his daughter before the wedding vows have even been spoken.  She cannot help but listen as he surprises Glauce in the garden, quieting her startled cry with a kiss.  Sweet assurances pour from his lips, the same ones he used in another garden long ago, a hollow confection of pretty promises in exchange for the rent veil of a maidenhead.

Medea closes her eyes as she hears him push Glauce up against a wall, pulling a panting assent from her lips before roughly claiming her virginity.  Pity flashes through her as the sound of her husband’s infidelity grows full of pleasured moans and little sighs.  Hero-worship and desperation are enough to seduce any sheltered princess – especially when wielded by a man like Iason who is so powerfully gifted by the goddess of love.

Glauce, daughter of Creon, never had a chance.

No more than she had.  Medea wonders – she has to wonder, how can she not? – if Iason truly understands what he has done.  Hero-worship and desperation were once enough to turn a young woman against her brother, her father, her country.

Enough to turn her into a traitor.

Enough to turn her into unrepentant manipulator and murderer.

Does he think the result will be any different with Glauce?

Medea pulls her awareness in to cover just her home and is relieved to hear the slow, steady heartbeats of all of her children.  Sleep is a blessing that they will not long be able to afford.

She stands up, Tisander a warm and comforting weight in her arms, and turns to enter the house.  A golden, fiery bird hovers next to the doorway, cooing in the voice of thousands of distant, golden bells as it nuzzles her cheek and then Tisander’s.  She smiles as the creature spends a moment preening her hair.

“Good job,” she says as the barriers Iason shattered begin mending.  “Thank you.”

The bird laughs and she gets the impression that she should go to bed before it vanishes in a wave of golden light.

Medea rolls her eyes.  “I was already heading that direction.”

 

Medea and Thessalus rise at dawn, readying the household for the day.

“We _should_ go down and speak to Argo,” says Thessalus.  “It’s wise and shouldn’t be left alone down there.”

“Actually,” Medea looks at him, “I think you should bring it here.”

“What?” Thessalus blinks at her.  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

“With this!”  Eriopis comes in from the courtyard, holding the bundle of cloth that she’s been weaving for the past week.  If there is anything that proves that Medea’s daughter is god-born, it is her extraordinary talent with loom and spindle.  There are few other than Medea – or an actual goddess – who could produce such a length of finely woven fabric in only a few days.  It is, however, the anger in her daughter’s pale eyes that stuns Medea.  “I was going to make a shawl for your naming day, mother.  But I think this –” she spreads the finely woven cloth over a chair, causing it to seem to disappear “—seems a better use for it.”

“Oh, well done!” Alcimenes stands in the doorway.  “I don’t think mother could have done a better job with the enchantment.  Did you weave it in?”  


“No – I tied it to some embroidery when I woke up.”  Eriopis pulls the cloth back, once again revealing the fabric and chair.

“I’m very impressed,” said Medea.  “Alcimenes, attend your brother.  Hire a cart and go down to Argo and bring her home.”

“Her?” asks Eriopis.

“Ships are female, or so I’m told.”

“You want me to get her down, I suppose?”  Alcimenes glanced at his mother.  Of the boys, he is the one most significantly talented with magic, where Eriopis has taken to it like breathing. “I can see how this would hide the log, but won’t people wonder why we’re bringing an empty cart up to the house?”

“They won’t after we fill it with your father’s things and then send it to the palace.”

“Let’s go, while it’s still early.”  Thessalus grabs Eriopis’ invisibility cloth and Alcimenes followed, grinning.  Medea shakes her head.  It is a good thing that they are in such high spirits.

“It won’t remain this easy,” says Eriopis.  “The palace servants have already found father in Glauce’s bed.”

“I told you not to listen,” Medea cannot help but scold.

“I wasn’t listening for him,” Eriopis looks up with cold rage that did not belong on a child’s face.  “I was… I was listening for Hippotes.  Father said that he was unhappy about everything and I thought maybe… maybe he’d be able to help us.  He has not been wakened yet, but the King…”

Medea pulls her daughter into her arms as Eriopis trails off.  “It was not a bad thought, little witch.”

“I didn’t want to know that,” Eriopis burrows into her embrace.  “I didn’t want to hear… that.”

“Ah,” Medea’s arms tighten.  “So when the servants found them, they were…”

“Busy.”  Eriopis flushes a bright red.  “I didn’t need to know what I was hearing was _them._ ”

_Medea finds herself laughing, remembering the first time she entered Colchis and how long it took her to understand what those particular noises_ _were._ _The day she realized she’d been eavesdropping on her brother and his mistress had been mortifying.  It had taken forever to learn to filter those sounds out._

_“I know it’s hard when you hear_ _everything_ _, but I promise it does get easier.”_

_“I hope so,” said Eriopis. “What are we going to do, mother?”_

_Medea sighed, looking up to find_ Mermeros and Pheres looking in from the doorway.

“Survive,” she says simply.

~*~

The day her father comes for her is much like any other day upon Circe’s island.  There is no warning, no indication of intent, just the whiff of timber, tar, and outsiders upon the breeze as she and the local sea nymphs harvest sea-silk for Circe’s looms.

“Strangers come,” says Resi.  “Take you away.”

“You shouldn’t go,” Naia placed her basket on the shore.  “We love you.”

The nymphs wrapped themselves around her.

“Stay.”

“Stay.”

“I’d like to,” said Medea.  “I don’t know if I will have to leave now, or if it will just be soon.”

“They take you on night tide,” Naia said sadly, eyes focused far, far away.  “You come back, but we not see you again.”

“Of course I will see you again!”

“No,” Resi shook her head.  “They come.  You must go.”

“Resi.”

“Mortals come, mortals go. You mortal.”

Medea’s eyes stung, pulling Resi and Naia close, enjoying the cool touch of their hands and the salty flavor of their kisses.

 

“Medea,” said Circe as Medea carried in the bale of sea-silk.  “Your father will be here this afternoon, and you must be ready to leave.”

“I know.” Medea set the bale aside for washing. “I smelled them.”

“I would keep you here, if I could.”  Circe’s cool green eyes held a distant kind of sadness.  “But I cannot.  Your destiny is not here.  I have rules I must follow, little witch, and the Fates rule all.”

“What if I don’t want my fate, Aunt Circe?”

“Fate is not to be denied, refuted, or refused, little witch.  Fate is the inexorable flood of time and tide.”

“And so.”

“And, so,” acknowledged Circe.  “It is not fair.  All things have a fate, Medea.  All things have a journey and all journeys have an end.”

“So I must go, no matter my will?"

Circe gave her a wintry smile.  “I think you will find yourself doing many things, regardless of your will.”

Medea sighed, taking a seat at Circe’s feet and resting her head upon her knee.

“I’m happy here.”

“I know, little witch.”  Circe’s fingers brushed through her hair.  “It is hard to see you go.  There is so much more I could teach you – so many more things we could discover together.  But it is not to be so.”

“Can you see my destiny?  Do you know what it is?”

“Not exactly.  I am not one of the great gods, who might ask.  Even among the Olympians, not even your grandmother, dark Hecate, or Artemis of the Wild would dare to demand to see what the fates have spun into your life, nor to see how it has been woven into the great tapestry of the world.  All we can see is what clings around you in a shroud, and much of it is touched with darkness.”

“So, I will need to be brave.”

“Hah!” Circe pinched her ear lightly.  “Courage you have in abundance, little witch.  Skill and knowledge, faith and cunning – all of these are things that you will take with you when your father comes.  Just… be wary, little witch.  The gods can grant many gifts, and neither magic nor perception is proof against all.”

“I will do my best.”

“Of course you will, dearest.”  Circe stood and offered her a hand up.  “What other choice do any of us have?”

 

Circe orders up a small feast in honor of her brother, Aeetes, but it is not remotely like the celebration that had been held in honor of Apsyrtus.  In an abstract way, Medea knows that it is both because – unlike her father’s timing with Apsyrtus – it is not her name day, and because she is a woman.  It irritates her, like sand stuck in her sandals, that he has no questions for her; he does not ask what she has learned from Circe, or what her skills are.  She knows that he would not be impressed by proficiency with a bow, or in shepherding golden, wingèd sheep, but her skill with herbs and magic is impressive enough that Hecate herself has praised her. Yet Aeetes is unconcerned with her accomplishments.  As it is, he seems to be barely able to tolerate sharing a meal or conversation with women.

It is then that Medea decides that the outside world must be nothing short of barbaric.  Circe has not skimped on the knowledge of what the outside world holds, but the disdain that rolls off of him in veritable waves is nothing short of primitive and crude.  When the meal ends, Aeetes – Medea finds that she cannot think of him as _father_ – rises from his sister’s table and snaps his fingers sharply.

“Come, girl, it is time for you to return home.”

Medea meets his eyes squarely, unafraid to plumb those fathomless depths.  A small sneer curls his lips as he glances back at his sister, who lounges casually at the head of the table with a cup of strong, plum wine.

“You have let her grow wild,” he says, anger limning each word.

“I find that best with children,” Circe responds, taking a small sip of her wine. “You gave me no instructions on what you would have your daughter learn, brother.”

“And so you made her like you?”

Circe laughed, green eyes sparkling in the evening light, her lips a vicious curve.

“Ah, no!” Her voice rippled like sunlight upon dancing leaves and moonlight upon the sea.  “I have only endeavored to allow Medea become most fully herself!”

“What use do I have for a girl who thinks?”

“More to the question, brother, what possible use do you suppose one of the god-born – a sorceress well-loved by each face of the moon – would have for you?  Your daughter may be mortal, brother, but she is no mere plaything.”

Aeetes paled, turning to stare at Medea, who merely gave him a small, feral smile.

“You sent me your children, brother, to teach as I wished.  I hope that you do not come to regret taking Apsyrtus away as early as you did – or leaving my beloved little witch with me for so long.”

 

~*~

It takes three days for Iason to return, bringing Glauce to visit Eriopis, supposedly to let them get to know one another.  Medea isn’t certain if she is more proud or appalled when her daughter stares at the veiled princess and says, “I know everything I need to.  We can all smell you on her, no matter how she tries to wash your stench away.”

“You dare? You must learn to respect your betters, daughter of Medea, if you wish to remain unbeaten.”  Glauce raises a hand and Medea steps between them.

“Surely you don’t intend to punish a child for speaking truth, princess.” Medea sniffed.  “Because you absolutely reek of Iason’s spend.  I’m surprised that your guards can’t smell it.”

“Medea.” Iason radiates disapproval.

“Didn’t you warn her?”

“Warn me of what?”  Glauce glanced derisively over them.  “That you and your spawn have no manners?”

“No,” said Medea gently.  “That I and my children are gifted with god-born perception.”

“You always claim that,” said Iason.

“That’s because it continues to be true.”

“Unlike your claim to sorcery.”  He smiles coldly.  “How have you been?”

“Better without you here.”

Thessalus’ laugh echoes softly from the far side of the courtyard, where he works on a wooden sculpture on the far side of the courtyard.

“He cannot have heard that,” hisses Glauce.

“If that’s what you wish to believe,” calls Thessalus carelessly.

“Come, let us go inside, we have things to discuss.”

“I can’t imagine what,” says Medea, leading the way inward.  “Would you like something to eat?  To drink?”

“As though I would accept anything from your hand.”

Medea considers Glauce calmly.  “I would hardly poison someone in my own home, highness.  That would be a terrible violation of hospitality.”

“And you’re so good about obeying divine law.”

“Despite the tales you tell, Iason, I am not the one who murdered my brother.  The trap I led him to was supposed to knock him unconscious.”  She stares at him with letting rage fill her eyes. “I’m not the one who beheaded a helpless man.”

“You lie,” says Glauce.  “Iason would never do such a thing.”

“I rarely lie, princess.  It’s counter-productive.”  Medea rests her hip against a table.  “So why don’t we skip the pleasantries that none of us mean, and you can tell me what you want.”

“Iason tells me that you burned my wedding regalia.”

“No,” says Medea.  “I burned _my_ wedding regalia, which I had intended to give to my daughter – the one who thinks you smell.  It was the dress I wore when I spoke vows to the man I loved and had given up everything for.  It was a lovely dress, made from shining, golden wool, but still, terribly unlucky.”

“None of that matters!  Iason meant that dress and those jewels for _me._ ”

“Iason had no right to try and give them away,” Medea shrugs.  “It hardly matters now, they have been rather thoroughly consumed.  If you like, I can show you the marks on the floor.”

Glauce’s eyes narrow.                                                                     

“Medea,” says Iason, voice rich with power.  “You _will_ provide Glauce with an appropriate dress and jewelry for the wedding.”

Medea pauses, as she has seen those under his influence do.  “As you wish, Iason.”

Glauce’s victorious smile drips venom.  “You will send Eriopis to me.”

Medea tilts her head to one side, taking a slow, obvious breath.

“If you want a dress before you indiscretion is obvious, you will leave her with me,” said Medea.

Glauce and Iason stilled.

“What?”

“For your marriage to be legal, Glauce must at least be perceived to be a virgin.  Slaves may be silenced, Iason, but pregnancy is obvious to all.”  She turns and meets his eyes squarely.  “If you wished any discretion at all, you should not have bedded her so thoroughly, much less through all of the days that Demeter held sway over her womb.”

“We shall have to speak to Father,” says Glauce, knuckles turning white as she grips Iason’s arm.

 

“You cannot believe her,” says Iason.  “She only claims god-born senses.  I have never seen proof of it.”

Glauce gives him an incredulous stare as Medea shakes her head.

“Doubt me if you wish,” says Medea.  “It is no matter to me if the world knows your depravity and her weakness.”

“You know nothing,” Iason snaps.  “And even if you did, you will say naught of it.”

“Oh, Iason,” Medea brushes past him.  “You have no idea the things I know and have said nothing of.  It honestly shames me that I thought you did.”

 

“So,” says Thessalus, hands dancing over the wood that held Argo’s spirit. The log seemed to hum with pleased contentment. “A gown and regalia.”

“A golden circlet of shining gems.”  Medea’s smile is honestly cheerful and she begins to laugh.  “What kind of fool asks his current wife or rejected lover to create his intended wife’s bridal regalia?  Even without magic, the mischief I could do is unimaginable.”

“One who thinks it will show her her place?” suggested the odd, alto voice that had once guided and guarded the ship.  In these last days a lovely and lissome shape has begun to take form beneath Thessalus’ hands, and the figure seems to turn, opening sightless eyes as Argo’s voice issues from unmoving lips.  “My charge… he is not shy of showing his tools their place in the world.”

“No.  Nor of discarding them.”

 “Be wary,” says Argo, “and quick.  If revenge you seek, be swift.  Yours are not the only machinations.”

Thessalus lays his tools aside.

“What will you do, mother?”

“Whatever I must.”  She holds the eyes of her eldest.  “There will be time – time to plan and prepare the feasts, time to create the dress.

 

Medea is several things, but she is no fool.  When Argo gives advice it is always wise to follow it.  As the noon sun shines down upon the courtyard fountain, she offers up a prayer to her grandfather, offering him a proper feast of welcome if he consents to visit when his daily course is done.  She then burns an offering to her grandmother, seeking Hecate’s guidance.  After a moment of consideration, she burns another to Artemis, for her daughter’s sake, and for the comfort the goddess’ arms once brought her.

“I do not know what to do,” she says, kneeling before the small altar.  “And I must, for my children will never be safe here.  Glauce wants Eriopis for her household and it will be nothing more than misery and toil.”

“Oh, Medea.” Lithe, strong arms wrap around Medea’s waist and a small, pointed chin rests upon her shoulder.  Artemis brings with her the scent of snow and pine, with blood and rich earth beneath it all.

“Artemis.”  It takes all of Medea’s strength to turn in that sharply gentle embrace.

Years and sin stretch between them, the goddess unchanged and forever mutable while Medea has grown and changed, yet remained essentially the same as the girl who lay somnolent with pleasure in Artemis’ arms.

“I wish you had taken me,” says Medea, suddenly overflowing with unnamable, unbearable anguish.  “I love my children, and would not choose to give them up, but… I wish you had taken me, and damned be to fate.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”  Artemis reaches up, cupping Medea’s face and brushing away her tears.  “We are all bound to fate, my lovely witch.  Even the great Olympians must bow to their whims.”

“I don’t care.”  Medea crumples and Artemis holds her close. “I don’t _care_.  Let their sharpest whips sting me, let them flay my soul from my flesh.  I just want my children safe before Iason’s machinations boil over.”

Long, callused fingers stroke through Medea’s hair and she sighs.  “Iason is an oath-breaker.  He abuses the gift that great Aphrodite gave him, hunting power and wealth and destroying all in his path.  I cannot even hate that poor girl.  How can I, when she’s me?  Trapped in her father’s court, with few opportunities and no choices.  At least I had magic – she has nothing but the desire to be something – anything – even if it is to be a hero’s wife.”

Artemis chuckles against her skin.  “I’m fairly certain that Glauce, daughter of Creon, has greater ambitions than that.”

“Perhaps,” says Medea.  “Iason certainly does.  And he has no compunctions about using a sister as a weapon against a brother… or a daughter against a father.  Creon is a fool if he thinks Iason will be satisfied with marriage.”

“True.”  Artemis’ hand stills.  “Iason is an admirably cunning hunter that way.”

“If by cunning, you mean unsuccessful.  He has yet to secure a throne.”

“No, he hasn’t, has he?”  Artemis’ lips press into her hair and Medea can actually feel the smile.  “Aeetes still has his throne, Iason was exiled from Iolcus – indeed, it is not guaranteed that he will manage to become king of Corinth, despite his gift and his scheming.  I cannot imagine how that came to be.”

Medea shivers.

“The hand of the Fates is heavy upon you, Medea of Colchis, and the Fates are rarely kind.” Artemis’ voice is both mirthful and melancholy.  “In the darkness, you shine your grandfather’s light, and burn away much that would otherwise corrupt and devour.  Be comforted, for if you must be a tool, at least it is not for one such as Iason.”

A gentle knock comes at the door.  “Mother, who is it that you’re talking to?”

Medea finds herself slumped upon the floor, alone before the altar, the scent of snow and pine, blood and earth floating upon the air.

“Just the gods, Alcimenes,” she says quietly, standing up as her son opened the door.  “Just the gods.”

 

Hecate and Helios arrive just as the stars begin blanketing the sky, and to Medea’s surprise, Selene trails in behind them, leaving a faint trail of stardust behind.  Medea greets them, firmly controlling her surprise.  It is not as though offering all of them hospitality will be a hardship, not when the small magics of the supper table have already been cast on an already bountiful meal.

“Please come in.  I know it’s a little unusual, but I thought to have all of the children with us, as there has not yet been an opportunity for you to meet them.”

Helios laughs, rough and warm.

“I have seen them, as I have always seen you, but I am right glad to make all of your acquaintance.”  He squints at Hecate.  “ _Some_ people kept insisting on girl only parties, and while I’m right glad that you enjoyed them, I would have liked to meet you before things got in such a fair knot.”

Hecate raises a delicate eyebrow and Selene hides a smile behind her hand.

“You knew where she was, you ridiculous man.”

“Aye, and no person in his right might tries to take on Circe in her own domain.  There aren’t a lot of beings that’d do it in their wrong ones, come to that.  I like being a god and not a divine pig or cow or that odd furry thing that’s neither fox nor fowl way down yonder.  Disobey Circe and end up looking a right fool when hauling the sun across the sky with a duck bill, fur, and no reasonable way to hold the reins.  No, she wanted to have little parties with no men allowed, then I wasn’t _about_ to interfere with that.”

Medea and the children all stare at him in rapt fascination as the words tumble in a rising flood before Tisander wobbles up to him and says “You breathe?”

Helios absolutely _roars_ with delighted laughter, picking the small boy up and tossing him gently into the air.  “Yes, lad.  I breathe.”

Tisander tilts his head to one side before shoving his hand almost into Helios’ mouth in order to verify the god’s words.  Helios blows gently into Tisander’s palm and settles him on his hip, causing the boy to giggle and begin babbling away.

Medea blinks at the two of them, nonplussed, as she sees Hecate approach Argo’s rough-hewn statue.  Thessalus has not really gotten all that far – it’s only been two days, and even with the sight and skill granted him by his gifts, it is no easy task to try and reveal the soul that has always lived within the wood.  There is a suggestion of a lithe and athletic form, but the only truly detailed work is a heart-shaped face with a wistful smile.  Hecate circles the statue three times before looking over and meeting Thessalus’ eyes.

“Well done, Thessalus,” she says, before reaching out and taking the blocky suggestion of what will undoubtedly be Argo’s hand. For a moment the wood shivers, the scents of cedar and cypress flooding the room, before a lovely young woman of no more than sixteen summers steps out of the wood.  Long, richly shining red-brown hair hides her body before Hecate spins a length of silk from starlight, protecting Argo’s modesty.  Argo blinks and stumbles forward, clearly unsteady.

“Well, _this_ is rather unexpected,” says Argo, holding her arms out for balance and staring down at her feet as though they are the most alien things in the world.  “I thought only that we might hide my nature a bit more cleverly than a log draped in sea-silk.  Iason would not recognize me as even the crudest statue.”

“He’s even less likely to recognize you now,”  Thessalus blurts, before covering his mouth with both hands and turning a rather brilliant red.

“Well, yes,” says Argo, looking up and revealing eyes the color of an angry sea.  “Which I suppose is rather Lady Hecate’s intent.  Although I do not know that I prefer this form at all.  It is most inconvenient.”

“I can change you back.”  Hecate doesn’t even bother to hide her smile.

“No thank you,” says Argo primly.  “I think I shall simply have to get used to it.  I have a basic understanding of how walking is supposed to function, but I find that the mechanics of it are a bit difficult to implement.”

“Thessalus, you carved her,” says Alcimenes.  “You should probably be the one to help her.”

“That sounds like a fine plan.”  The words slip from Medea’s mouth before she can actually process the idea.  She looks over at Selene, who is shaking with silent laughter and then gives up. 

“If anyone is interested, the food is over there.”

 

The meal is merry and filled with high spirits, few manners, and more joy than Medea would have thought possible.  She is somewhat surprised when all of the children are willing to head off to bed when dismissed – Eriopis offering to share her pallet with Argo until they’ve worked something else out – and then sighs when she sees Hecate’s smug little smirk.

“They are delightful,” says Helios.

“Yes,” Medea says, proud of her children.  “And they are not safe.”

“No.”  Helios’ eyes drift to Selene and Hecate and he sighs.  “There is not much that we can do for you, lass, Fate being what it is, but sometimes there’s a wee bit of wiggle room, if you know where to look.”

“Fate is a funny thing,” says Selene. “Sometimes fate is a who.  Sometimes it’s is a what.  Sometimes it’s a where – or a how.  You can be someone’s fate, even if they are not yours, do you understand?”

“I think so.”

Hecate makes a small gesture, and three tufts of glittering fiber appear in her hand.

“In your storage rooms, you will find three bales silk, ready to spin.  One of gold, one of silver, and one like a moonless night, filled with stars.  Each holds the blessing of the one who gifts it to you, and each holds a curse for the one who breaks faith.”  Hecate smiles, and it is a cold, cold thing.  “Sometimes, you just have to allow people to choose how to meet their destiny.”

Helios huffs a laugh.

“That’s one way to put it.”  He turns and looks at Medea.  “I know I’ve missed a mort of naming days, both yours and the children’s – and that’s a fair shame.  A man can’t make up missing time and trials with a few trinkets, but no one can blame him if he tries, you see.”

“No, I suppose one can’t,” says Medea, slightly bemused.

Helios places small, wooden boat on the table.  As toys go it is incredibly detailed, with men and oars that move, and a tall mast begging for a sail.  Beside it he places an empty bag and a scrap of bright, sturdy linen.

“I advise putting the sail on before the boat touches the water,” he says. “And don’t open the bag indoors unless you want a right mess, but – the children will likely enjoy playing with it, lass, and Argo, at least, will have great tales of how to get to distant and exotic places.”

With that, her grandfather stood, pushing away from the table.  “Fair fortune to you, m’dear.  I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

Hecate pulls her into a brief embrace before following.  Selene lingers for a moment before handing her a shard of Hephaestus’ glass that glows so brightly with magic it is near blinding.

“For when you need it most, dear niece,” she says.  “Because, honestly?  _Fuck_ the Fates.”

With that the moon goddess steps out of the lamp-lit room and fades into the night.

 

In the morning Medea sends a servant to the palace with a note that Glauce might wish to choose the material from which her dress will be made.  The bales Hecate told her of are in the storage room, as had been implied, but there is so much more.  Egyptian cotton, dyed and natural sea-silk, freshly prepared linen – everything she might ever want to spin and create with is tucked neatly away in the room.  Eriopis stands next to her, eyes wide, fingers twitching in the desire to touch.

“ _Mother.”_

“Be wary, little witch.  These were gifted to us by gods.”

“And the gods gifts are perilous,” Eriopis’ fingers still, though her face is filled with longing.

“How did you get so wise?”

“I have a good teacher.” Eriopis gives her with an impish smile before heading out toward the courtyard and up to the women’s quarters.  There is rage still banked in her daughter’s eyes, but the gentle press of Aphrodite’s Gift is filled with nothing but calm and good-will.  Unlike the rough invasion of Iason’s gift, Eriopis’ is more like a gentle breeze.  Eriopis never seeks to control – only to comfort, calm, and offer clarity. Medea is grateful and unbearably proud of her daughter’s sense and maturity.

Glauce eventually arrives with a small gaggle of servants and slaves.  Medea says nothing as she loudly orders them to assess the household goods and determine if any are worthy of being moved to the rooms in the royal palace that her father has granted them.

 _“I wonder what she’s hoping for,”_ she hears Alcimenes whisper from the doorway of the workshop he shares with the twins.  _“That all of our furniture is to her standard so she can take it, or that she can dismiss it all as rubbish, unworthy of her.”_

 _“I doubt she knows,”_ replies Mermeros from the upstairs balcony. _“Although I think it would be wise if Eriopis hides Mother’s jewelry.”_

 _“Already done,”_ the bower door on the upper balcony opens, and Eriopis steps out to view the commotion. _“I wonder if they’ll try and take your gold and shiny stones, Alcimenes, although I’ve no idea how shiny jewelry is to be constructed if she steals the makings of it.”_

 _“Quiet, all of you,”_ Medea whispers under her breath, causing her children to retreat to their previous activities.  She steps forward and sees a flash of fear in Glauce’s eyes.  Medea feels her lips curve in a small, vicious smile.  Someone, at least, has the sense to fear.  “Peace, Glauce, I mean you no harm.”

“Do not address me with such familiarity, witch.” Cold hauteur chases away Glauce’s clear unease, and Medea’s smile spreads wider.

“As you will, your highness.  If you will follow me.”

“I’m surprised you’re willing to be so… reasonable.  If it were me, I would fight for him.”

Medea cannot control the laugh that bubbles from her throat.

“I’m no longer a child,” says Medea as she opens the door to the storage room.  “And I find that Iason is not so great a prize as one might think.”

Glauce’s mouth twists at the unsubtle mockery.  “More fool you then.  Any good woman would want to be married to such a man.”

“If it gives you comfort to think so, princess.”  Medea lights the lantern at the center of the room with magic.

“Iason said your powers were broken.”

“Did he?” Medea precedes her guest into the room.  “Then I suppose it must be, although such simple things will always be within my reach.”

“I should have you all branded and sold upon the auction block,” Glauce hisses, clearly unsettled by Medea’s lack of care or distress.  “Father’s soldiers should come here and put you all to the sword.”

“Would that make you feel safer?” Medea turns and stares at her. “Selling children into slavery, murdering rivals for his affection?  Or is it enough to exert power over them?”

“I hate you.  That is reason enough.”

“I’m not terribly fond of you, either.”  Medea waves a hand.  “Pick something, Glauce, or have your own handmaidens construct a gown of your choosing.  Soonest done, princess, the soonest ended.”

“Oh, you and your child will make it.  You’ll see me wear it and swear my vows to him – you will understand that Iason is _mine_ and has _never_ been yours.”  Glauce drifts forward, eyes darting over all of the bales, focusing on the one in the back corner that gleams in shining gold.  “You lied, you said you had no more wool from the Golden Fleece.”

“I never had wool from the Golden Fleece, I had wool from golden sheep,” Medea moves into the corner and pulled out the silken bale.  She pulls out a small tuft, and it gleams like gold and fire.  “This isn’t wool – it is sunsilk, gifted to me by my father’s family.”

“I will wear a dress of gold, and a diadem of shining stones,” says Glauce, her eyes suddenly soft and dreamy.  “He will see me and forget what you ever looked like, forget that he ever got children on you.  You will be nothing and I will be everything.  He promised.”

Medea doesn’t answer, instead snuffing the lamp and returning outside, where Eriopis is arguing with one of Glauce’s servants.

“I cannot weave without my loom, you idiot.”

“It is one of the few things of true value in this house, and as such it belongs to the princess.”

“Oh, leave it,” says Glauce, eyes darting over the few items that her servants have deemed worthy.  “Let them have their shoddy things.  I’ll take control of this house and set it to rights soon enough.”

“You have two weeks, witch.  If the dress is not ready… well, there are consequences.”

“It will be as you wish, your highness,” says Medea.  “May your choices bring you some measure of happiness.”

 

The silk spins easily, flowing like magic through her fingers and filling the spindle with the speed of great Hermes in flight.  Eriopis strings her loom, and her shuttle flies with a god-driven haste, the shining length of silk growing with every hour.  Between them they have the fabric of the dress ready in but a few days, and add complex embroideries for love and joy in but a few more.

When it is done, the two of them stare at the flowing silk in wonder.  It is a dress fit for a goddess, and magic pools around it like golden sunlight.

“The gifts of gods _are_ perilous,” says Eriopis.  Medea nods her agreement as Alcimenes pokes his head in the door.

“I thought my diadem was gods-inspired, but it’s nothing compared to _that,”_ he says, coming in.  In   one hand he holds the diadem to which the shimmering, translucent veil will be attached.   He’s wrong, Medea thinks, because the delicate construction of golden wire and shining gems is one of the most beautiful things she’s ever seen.

“You need to take it to her,” says Eriopis.  “As soon as you may.”

“No sooner than tomorrow,” says Medea.  “There is much to be done this night.”

Eriopis frowns before sighing her acceptance.  Alcimenes and the twins help her take down her loom, taking the pieces down to the wagon that holds what few household goods the children will take with them when they leave.  Circe’s home is well furnished and it is far better to make a clean break, Medea thinks, than torment themselves with the life that they have been denied.

Thessalus takes them, driving a wagon filled with his siblings – and Argo – out of the city gates.  Medea is unsure if it is a good or bad thing that it elicits so little comment.  Iason is unlikely to hear of it before the evening tide and by the time he does know, the children will be long gone.  All she can hope is that their journey is safe.

 

In the morning Medea folds Glauce’s gown into a basket, placing the veil and shining diadem atop it.  The wedding is planned for a few days hence, but she knows that it is time – and more than time – for the game to end.  She bathes in water scented with sweet oil and dons the armor of her caste, dressing in her finest silks.  Her maid brushes her hair and winding it in elaborate coils studded with the brilliant, shining jewels of Colchis, and she wears the elegant, golden jewelry her brother gifted her on her nameday long ago.

When she steps into the litter that will carry her to the palace for the last time, Medea is, in every inch, the god-born Witch-Princess of Colchis.

Medea sweeps into the Palace as if she owns it, bypassing guards and courtiers without concern as she walks, unerringly, to Glauce’s rooms.  A gaggle of servants scatter before her as she enters.

Glauce, caught in the ordeal of dressing staggers back, startled.

“Medea.”

“Glauce.”

This time, Glauce does not object to the familiarity.

Medea removes the lid from her basket, offering the dress and shining diadem.

“By the gods,” says Glauce, lifting the shining diadem from its bed of gold. “How could you have done this so soon?  I did not believe you would be ready.”

Medea hums a noncommittal reply as Glauce sets the diadem aside and pulls the bright, golden silk from the basket.

“I must try it on!”

“By all means,” Medea murmurs.  “Please do.  I should see if any adjustments need to be made.”

Glauce looks up at her for a moment, eyes shining with an odd, misty delight.

“A golden wedding dress,” Glauce twirls around before calling for a servant.  “It’s perfect.  I have to show Iason.  I have to show _father.”_

“Perhaps I should wait outside.”

Glauce nods, swaying softly, as though to music.

 

It is no surprise to find Iason and Creon waiting in the antechamber when Medea exits Glauce’s bedchamber and she finds herself smiling with a cool and centered calm.  She can feel the weight of Iason’s gift as it fills the room, but she glides through it without it gaining purchase.  Iason frowns at her and she laughs a little, realizing that – for the first time since they met, she is well and truly free of his influence.  The knowledge is _glorious._

Creon stares at her as though he has never seen her before, mouth a little agape as she allows the power that has long been constrained by Iason’s will and her own, useless modesty to flow from her like a tide.  She sees him swallow hard, paling to a sickly green before he dons a mask of royal indifference.

Her smile sharpens with the sudden, terrified trip of Creon’s heart and the acrid sent of his fear.  The weight of Iason’s gift shifts, clearly struggling to dismiss the king’s near panic.

“Medea,” Iason says, expression neutral.  “How unexpected.”

“How so?” she asks lightly.  “You asked that I provide a dress fit for a princess.”

“Shouldn’t you still be working on it?”

Medea laughs, sharp and mocking.

“Oh, what little faith you have in me and my _gifts_.”  She allows her magic to spark around her in visible flashes of light, and Iason steps back.

“Little tricks,” he tries to dismiss.  “Hardly anything.  You haven’t the strength for anything more.”

“Sure of that, are you?” she asks as the door to Glauce’s bedchamber opens.  The princess steps out, wreathed in a fall of gorgeous, shimmering sunlight.

“By the gods,” Iason breathes.

“You are beautiful, child.”  Creon pushes forward as Glauce spreads her arms, spinning in a slow circle.  The dress is a design of Circe’s, and unlike any seen in Corinth, but that makes it that much more exotic.

“I know.” Glauce giggles dreamily.  “It’s perfect, father.  I could hardly want for anything more.”

Creon embraces her, placing a small kiss upon her brow.

“I’m sure you can think of something, child.”

Glauce looks over at Iason and giggles again, soft and oddly disconnected.

“Only the one thing,” dreamy eyes focus upon Medea.  “You have to make them go away, father. They have to die.  My baby will never be secure so long as Medea and her children live.”

“Then it shall be so.”

Even though she knows that the sunsilk carries a curse upon it, Medea finds herself surprised by the first burst of holy fire.  Glauce shrieks in sudden fear and Creon screams in agony as sun-bright flame begins to consume them.

“What have you done?” Iason’s shout knocks Medea out of her shocked stillness.

“Nothing!  After all, you broke my power, didn’t you?  That’s what you’ve told everyone.” She pushes past him as the fire burns, white hot behind her.  With a flick of her fingers, she summons the cloak Eriopis fashioned out of her enchanted fabric and dons it with but a thought.  She passes through the panicking servants and guards, unseen and unnoticed, heading for the _Argo’s_ rotting and empty husk.

She sits high upon the prow, watching the city panic as she sits in the embrace of Helios’ warm rays.  Word spreads to the docks, where the sailors just shrug and continue on with their work, as though the deaths of the king and his daughter are nothing more than incidental curiosities.

Maybe that’s all they are, when time and tide do not care about one’s petty problems.

Soldiers search, but it is Iason who finds her, sword out and dripping with some poor innocent’s blood.  With a pang, she realizes that he would try questioning the servants and household slaves.  In her haste, she had forgotten them all.

“What have you _done?”_ Iason stares up at her with rage filled eyes.  Behind him comes rank upon rank of soldiers, Hippotes in their lead.

“I did nothing, Iason, but what was asked of me.” She holds out an empty hand and holds his eyes.  “I spun the silk and Eriopis wove the cloth.  It is Glauce who chose silk gifted to me by Helios – and Glauce who chose to summon His wrath by threatening His kin.  It is Creon, who invoked it by agreeing to the slaughter of our children.”

“No,” Iason grits out.  “It cannot have been that.  It _has_ to have been you.  You had to have known, for there is nothing left – the servants know nothing and the children are _gone._ ”

“Oh, it was not _I_ who did this, Iason, but you.” Medea lets her rage pool and shudder, magic striking out and knocking the soldiers and guardsmen off of their feet. “You, who seduced the mind of a king and twisted his daughter.”

She glances at Hippotes.  “How long do you suppose you would have survived their marriage, prince?  How long would your father survive your death?”

“Lies!”  A knife flies past her, and Medea laughs, dark and cruel.

“I rarely lie, Iason.  I am a _witch_.  Magic demands truth!”  Medea pulls Selene’s crystal from her throat and throws it to the ground, shattering it.

Shining smoke billows out, accompanied by the roar of dragons and a shining silver chariot.  Medea descends from her perch, walking on air to the car of the chariot. Hippotes shouts for his soldiers, but the dragons lash out, driving them all back.

Medea pulls on the reins and the chariot begins to rise.

“No!”  Iason’s gift rages around her and she laughs again as it fails to find purchase.

“Goodbye, _husband_ ,” she calls down to him. “May you die destitute and alone, in the utter ruin of your ambitions.”

He screams her name as the chariot climbs into the sky, and the sound of it is like music.

~*~

It did not take long for Medea to learn she hated living in her father’s court.  There is no freedom to move or act.  Everything she did, from her dress to her manners was looked upon with derision and disdain.  Provincial, they called her.  Wild.  Undisciplined.  Uncontrolled.

It made her want to curse the whole city and turn them all into swine.

Aeetes told her that she must adapt, because the world was not a thing that she could change.  In turn, she informed him that he’d better find a place where she could live as she wished, or she would level the city.

She hadn’t been serious about that.

Well.  Mostly.

In the end, they compromised.  He built her tower somewhat away from the city, where she could study her magic and run as free as she wished in exchange for her presence in his court and assistance with the defenses of the city – and of the Golden Fleece.

One day, she and her brother were down by the docks, inspecting the magical fortifications when Medea scents foreign wood and unfamiliar spices, and something ineffable, like the perfume of Artemis’ skin.  The strangers, when they arrive, are larger than life – heroes and gods and demigods, questing for the great treasure of her House.

Apsyrtus snorted when he heard that, but says nothing.  Many come seeking the Fleece, but none have yet proven themselves worthy.

But when Medea looked upon Iason, their leader, she felt something warm and comfortable wrap itself around her mind, burrowing deep and connecting them in a way she had never felt before, even when lying satiated in Artemis’ embrace.

“I hope you do not mind, but you’re so lovely I had to speak to you.  I am Iason, the rightful heir of Iolcus.”

“I am Medea, daughter of Aeetes.”  He smiled at her and she could not help but smile back.  For a moment, she could feel the world lay itself wide open at her feet. “Welcome to Colchis.”

After all, all journeys had a beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> I struggle with calling the incident between Iason and Glauce rape. It is true that Iason is using his empathic gifts to help persuade her, but it is also true that Glauce is -- very deliberately -- allowing herself to be used because (even without Iason's influence) she believes that any objections to her marriage to Iason will be almost immediately overridden by the need to get her married off, lest her lack of virginity make her unmarriageable. If it were an issue of Iason and Creon conspiring against Glauce to ensure the marriage, I'd unhesitatingly call it rape, but it's more a case that Iason *intends* a form of rape via emotional compulsion, it's just that Glauce honestly consents without the need for his manipulation. Since Medea doesn't have access to any of that information, all the reader gets is her assumptions about what is going on.


End file.
